


desperation (prolonging disillusion)

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Boot Worship, Praise Kink, humping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:49:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7921189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing says Blackwatch quite like a rickety warehouse full of poached animal products in the middle of Argentina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	desperation (prolonging disillusion)

Nothing says Blackwatch quite like a rickety warehouse full of poached animal products in the middle of Argentina.

Gabriel Reyes can’t say he minds the climate; it’s pleasantly cool outside, if a little humid, and the sun that filters in through grimy, shot-out windows is bright enough to warm his skin. He can see the backdrop of the rainforest outside, hear the cries and calls of the wildlife, and if it wasn’t for the shotgun sitting in his lap and the body armor strapped across his chest, the corpses of poachers lying in a pile in the farthest corner, he’d almost think he was on a vacation.

He shifts his weight a little, throwing an arm over the back of the low chair he sits in and folding one leg over the other; his boot bounces slowly through the air as he hums to himself, content for the moment to stay sitting, basking in the glow of the dying sun.

Waiting.

The noise of the warehouse’s metal door creaking open is enough to lazily draw his gaze. He looks over to see an operative pushing the door shut again with both hands, and a slow grin stretches across his face--he recognizes that not-quite-lanky build, the slope of those shoulders, the messy brown hair.

“McCree.”

The kid jumps like he’s been shot, looks over his shoulder at Reyes; blinks and then the alarm melts off his face, instead replaced by the signature shit-eating grin that Gabriel has begrudgingly grown so fond of. 

“...Commander.” McCree touches two fingers to his forehead in an otiose salute; Gabriel rolls his eyes but acknowledges the attempt at respect with a dip of his head. “Don’t you look comfortable.”

Gabriel grins, showing off a hint of canine--successful missions always put him in a lively mood, and this one in particular had gone off practically without a hitch. He’s feeling _good_ : adrenaline still hot in his blood, shotgun a warm, familiar weight in his lap, the bad guys dead and the goods secured. 

He feels _victorious_. 

“I worked hard today,” he tells McCree, watching as the kid slinks closer, passing through bars of sunlight that make shadows dance across his lean figure. Gabe’s eyes linger over where shadow accentuates the hollow of McCree’s jaw, the sharp angles of his face. “Led my team well. I think I deserve some comfort after such a productive day...”

He trails off as McCree stops, barely an arm’s reach away; this close Gabriel can see the mounting excitement in the kid’s expression, the way his eyes gleam. He straightens up in his chair a little, just to watch McCree’s gaze break down to track the way his muscles shift, flexing under the sleeves of his hoodie. 

“...don’t you think so, McCree?”

“Yeah.” McCree’s voice comes out breathy, reverent; Gabriel’s grin only grows, baring more of his teeth. Predatory. “You...you definitely deserve to relax, Commander. Definitely.”

Gabriel snickers. “I’m glad we agree.” He raises a hand to crook two fingers, beckoning McCree forward almost lazily with a simple command. 

“Knees.”

It’s like he’s hardwired into McCree’s brain--the kid rushes forward, sinks down in front of Gabriel’s chair, tilts his chin up. Everything from the curve of his back to the hunger in his eyes is textbook eager submission, like McCree was _born_ for this, to do nothing but sit at Gabriel’s feet and worship him like a king.

Maybe he was.

“You know,” he starts, voice conversational as he threads a hand through McCree’s sweaty hair, brushes back his bangs almost tenderly, “I wasn’t the only one who worked hard today.”

Gabriel notices the way McCree’s expression turns hopeful, and he adds with a grin, “I noticed an increase in effort from everybody. Madocki’s accuracy was through the roof...”

He loves doing this--loves teasing McCree with the praise that he so desperately wants, baiting him time and time again just to make the eventual reward that much sweeter. McCree watches him with his sourness barely contained, eyes dark but trained on Gabriel’s face, on his lips, as if trying to read the words before he says them.

“And Stillworth…” McCree flinches slightly, his lip starting to curl; Gabriel delights in it, in his boy’s petty jealousy. As if McCree doesn’t know he already has all of the fondness Gabriel can spare. He lets his gaze wander back to the nearest window, then adds, “Did you see Traes’s hand-to-hand? I bet he could almost take _me_ down, now…”

“I saw it,” McCree says, tightly. His hands quiver, then curl into fists on his thighs, white-knuckled and tight. “Didn’t think it was that good.”

Gabriel chuckles--of course not. He looks back down to McCree like he’d forgotten he was even there--like he could ever forget the pretty, desperate boy kneeling at his feet and hanging on his every word--and smirks as he lightly finishes, “You weren’t bad either, Jesse.”

It’s like flipping a switch; McCree’s face lights up, his knees scuffing along the ground as he shuffles even closer, expression changing into something hopeful and open as he presses, “Oh, yeah?” And if Gabriel was a kind man, he’d take pity on the poor kid and spend a day just telling him how good he is, building up that confidence that Deadlock left shattered and nurture McCree just for the chance to see the kid whole.

But he’s not. And he resigned himself long ago to the fact that in Blackwatch, nothing comes without a price. To give McCree what he wants without making him work for it, letting him get it the easy way, would be doing a disservice to the kid--after all, pressure makes gems. Ease makes decay.

He won’t let McCree decay.

“Yeah,” he says, mildly; he bounces his boot again, watches the way McCree’s eyes drift to the dusty, dirty leather, and is struck with sudden inspiration. His smirk turns wolfish. “You weren’t bad...but I bet you could be good.”

McCree’s gaze snaps back to Gabriel’s, intent and focused--a fish on a hook. He nods slightly, trying to answer the question that wasn’t asked, trying to reassure Gabriel of a doubt he hasn’t even voiced yet. Paranoid; neurotic.

“I bet you could be so good…” Gabriel lets his voice trail off, leans a little closer to watch the way McCree’s tongue darts out to lick his lips, the motion of his throat as he swallows. His voice comes out almost soft, borderline curious, as he asks, “Can you be good, McCree?”

The kid looks like a damn bobblehead, he nods so fast. His hands shift on his thighs, restless and wanting to touch--uncertain if he can, if he’s earned it. “Yeah--yes, sir. Yes, Commander. I can.”

His words stumble as he gets them out, desperate to please; and Gabriel smirks wider, nodding in agreement just to watch the relieved smile that flits across McCree’s face. He settles back in his chair again, asks pleasantly, “Why don’t you show me then, _Jessito_?”

McCree shudders like he’s been touched by lightning, nods with a keen; he sits up enough to gently put his hands on Gabriel’s calf, rubbing the hard muscle through the fatigues. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, voice quaking as he asks, “What...what do you want me to do?”

Like a worshipper to his god; beautifully submissive like Jack never was, adoring and awed like the UN would never be. Gabriel _loves_ it.

“You’re a clever boy, McCree,” he purrs, watching how the kid all but melts again; amused by the distention he can see in the crotch of McCree’s fatigues, the gradually-growing tent of the dark fabric. “I’m sure you can think of something.”

He’s kind enough to give McCree a hint, in bouncing his boot again, narrowing his gaze pointedly; Gabriel can pinpoint the exact moment that McCree realizes what he wants by the way he bites his lip, the color that starts to gather high on his cheeks. For a few moments everything seems impossibly still, almost tense--Gabriel warring with impatience and doubt in his command, McCree with his own pride.

“...sir,” McCree finally says, and tips his head forward to lick a swath up the side of Gabriel’s boot.

Gabriel sucks in a breath he hopes McCree can’t hear, fixated; focused on the pink of McCree’s tongue against his black boot, the shine of spit that he leaves behind. McCree seems to be concentrating, too--eyes locked on the black leather like he can’t bear to look up and see Gabriel, his cheeks flushed bright in what is surely mortification: though if it’s at the action itself or his eagerness to please, Gabriel has no way of knowing.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, stroking lightly through McCree’s hair, watching the way his eyes flutter; McCree is fully hard in his pants now, cock straining clearly against the fabric, and his enthusiasm is enough to make Gabriel’s own dick stir in interest. “Clever boy...keep going. That’s right…”

He trails off with a happy sigh, content for the moment to let McCree kneel at his feet and lick his boot clean--but the longer he watches, the more he notices that McCree seems to be anything but satisfied. His hips move in jerky, aborted half-thrusts against the air, and he manages a keen behind every swipe of his tongue; he works up the courage to meet Gabriel’s gaze after a few minutes, and flat-out whines, looking desperate and needy enough to break a softer man’s heart.

“What is it, McCree?” Gabriel asks, taking mercy on the kid and pausing in his petting. His hand stays a solid weight on the back of McCree’s head, keeping him held against his boot just in case he has any thoughts about pulling away. “Is it not enough for you? Do you need more?”

McCree shakes his head--nods--whines again, hapless in the face of his lust and desire. Gabriel coos at him, delighting in the wrecked keen it pulls from the kid’s throat.

“If you need to get off,” he says, voice kinder than it has any business being, in this warehouse full of corpses with McCree’s tongue on his filthy boots, “then you’re more than welcome to. Just hump my leg, like a dog. That should get you off, right?”

McCree _sobs_ , but immediately takes the offered advice. His grip on Gabriel’s calf changes to something tight and squeezing, and he curves his spine to grind up against the firmness of Gabriel’s shin, hitching his hips forward in movements made unsteady by desperation. He isn’t licking much, anymore--more just has his tongue lolled out, panting open-mouthed against Gabriel’s boot--but his shameless display is more than enough to make up for it. 

“Good boy,” Gabriel purrs, petting through McCree’s hair again; he scratches his nails lightly behind the kid’s ear, watches his eyes roll back, listens to his choked moan. “ _Good_ boy, Jesse. You’re doing so good...being so good for me. Are you gonna cum like this?”

McCree nods helplessly, drooling onto the leather of Gabriel’s boot as he keeps rolling his hips-- _fuck_ yes, he hopes he’s allowed to, because he doesn’t know if he could stop. Even the Strike-Commander and all of high brass busting through the door wouldn’t be enough to get him off Gabriel’s leg; but, he suddenly realizes, if Gabriel commanded it, he’d be off and away in a heartbeat.

McCree bemoans his uncomely loyalties and closes his eyes, grinding harder against his Commander’s shin.

“Good.” Gabriel fists a hand in McCree’s hair and pulls his head away from his boot, instead guiding McCree’s mouth toward his crotch. His cock is hard by now, throbbing in the confines of his fatigues; he uses his free hand to unzip them enough to pull his cock through, holds McCree’s head on his thigh, and works over his shaft in quick pulls that expose his glistening tip with every stroke, make his piercings gleam.

McCree’s hips stutter against his leg, then find a new rhythm--fast, desperate, and close.

“If you’re gonna cum,” Gabriel huffs, voice a little hoarse despite himself, “you’d better do it before I do, or you’re not gonna get to. And then you’re gonna have to sit in the plane with everyone else with a fuckin’ hardon in your pants, and explain to everyone that you got it from _licking your Commander’s boots_.”

McCree moans raggedly, reaching his tongue out toward Gabriel’s cock desperately, mesmerized by the glide of dark foreskin over his shaft and hungry for a taste; and when Gabriel finally grants it to him, uses his hold in McCree’s hair to jerk his head forward and push it into his crotch, the smell of his Commander’s sweat and taste of his skin is enough to do McCree in. He cums with a broken, airy cry, moaning against the hard cock pressed into his face and wetting his boxers with his cum, hips faltering and twitching as he moans into his afterglow.

McCree is so caught up in his haze--with his Commander’s scent in his nose, his taste on his tongue, the feel of his muscles under his cheek--that he doesn’t even hear Gabriel’s own groan of release, doesn’t feel the spray of white into his hair. 

What he does feel, as he comes back to himself seemingly an eternity later, is Gabriel’s heavy hand petting over his cheek, giving him a pat. “McCree...hey. Jesse. C’mon, now.” He sounds breathless--amused, even. McCree takes a quiet delight in the knowledge that _he_ is the reason why.

Gabriel shifts where he sits, and McCree has to move; looks at him blearily and notices with a pang of loss that Gabriel has already tucked himself away again. But he’s grinning, and panting softly, looking almost proud as he nudges McCree away with his boot.

“Get yourself fixed up, kid,” he says, getting to his feet; he stretches his arms over his head, grabs his shotgun off the floor, and heads toward the door--leaving McCree kneeling on the floor with wet boxers and hair glazed in cum, still flushed and panting. “We’ve got a plane to catch--it’s a long flight back to Switzerland.”

McCree looks down at himself, at the mess Gabriel made him--more accurately, the mess _he made himself_ , on Gabriel’s whim. He licks his lips and starts to speak--

“Oh.” Gabriel pauses in his steps, doesn’t turn around; his voice carries just enough for McCree to hear if he strains his ears. “And when we do get back...I expect you in my quarters, for a _private_ debriefing.”

He starts toward the door again, spit-shined boots making the old floorboards creak, and McCree scrambles up to chase after his shadow.


End file.
